Ashmore kept staring at Lucy, and she kept staring back. They were back at the staring game, were they?
He got up and placed both hands on the desk and leaned forward. Lucy leaned forwardas well. The air crackled. Every fibre in Lucy’s body tingled.
Good God, he will do it,Lucy thought.He will kiss me right in front of Mr Brown.
He would have done it, too, if he hadn’t recalled himself in the last moment.
“Let’s get one thing clear once and for all,” he said so quietly the hair on her arms stood on end. “My sister is my business, and my business alone.My sister’s future is not up for discussion.You may trust that I consider Arabella’s happiness of utmost importance. I’ll thank you if in future you’ll stop meddling with affairs that don’t concern you.”
“I take pig-headed back.” Lucy turned to Brown. “It’s a sad case of don’t want to hear, don’t want to see, don’t want to speak.” She placed both hands over her mouth, her ears, and her eyes. “Good day to you,gentlemen.” She got up, nose in the air, and left the room rather grandly.
The study was silent.Brown threw a furtive look at the duke.
“Brown.”
“Your Grace?”
“What in the name of all that’s good and holy am I to do?”
A look of understanding crossed Brown’s face. He cleared his throat. “The truth?”
“If you please.”
“I think you’d better marry her, Your Grace.”
Chapter 12
The next morning, the company slept in late. Lucy stood by the window of the drawing room, watching raindrops glide down the windowpane, when a low voice accosted her.
“Miss.”
She turned. Felix Xaver Zornmann, the footman, stood in front of her. “Yes?”
“His Grace would have a word with you in the library. If you could follow me.”
Lucy’s stomach jolted. She followed him to the duke’s wing.
He bowed and opened the library door for her.
Lucy swallowed.
She’d never been in the library before. It was a beautiful, oblong room, with windows on one side that allowed light to flood in, and tall, open bookshelves on the other. There was an ornate fireplace and several armchairs to invite reading and relaxation. The duke stood by the window, his back to the room, feet apart, his hands clasped behind his back. Dressed in breeches, top boots and dark blue topcoat, he was a stern, commanding presence. Lucy wanted to flee. Instead, she positioned herself behind the green fauteuil.
Silence.
Either he wasn’t aware that she was standing behind him, or he didn’t give a tuppence and let her wait intentionally.
Should she clear her throat? Rustle about with her dress? Drop into a curtsy? Even before he opened his mouth to say something, he made Lucy feel foolish, awkward and entirely ill at ease.
On top of everything, her nose tickled.
Lucy grabbed the edge of the fauteuil for support and waited with a sense of doom for the inevitable. “Aaah-chooo!” Unfortunately, it wasn’t a ladylike, cute kind of sneeze, but a violent eruption that sprayed moisture over the furniture. At least she’d got his attention. He spun around.
“Sorry.” She covered her dripping nose with one hand. She never had a handkerchief when she needed one.
The duke produced one, and she blew her nose noisily, while he watched with a raised eyebrow. She crumpled it into a wet ball and held it out to him. He looked at it through his quizzing glass and flared his nostrils.
“You may keep the handkerchief, Miss Bell.”
